


Legacy

by consulting_vulcan_jedi_detective



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Star Trek
Genre: AU, Augments, Crossover, Eugenics Wars - Star Trek, M/M, Treklock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-26
Updated: 2014-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-24 18:47:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/943385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consulting_vulcan_jedi_detective/pseuds/consulting_vulcan_jedi_detective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Khan… You won't even be around to raise him, and if this stupid <i>Botany Bay</i> thing does end up happening he'll probably be long dead when you wake up but you might at least have the grace to give our son a name… Unless you want me and the seven-year-old to do it but please, just this once, take some time off your work and pick a name?"</p><p>"I shouldn't even be in England right now, Mary. I shouldn't be wasting my time on this… triviality."</p><p>"He's your <i>son</i>, for God's sake. I know you can come up with something."</p><p>"Mary. I really have to go."</p><p>"Any name will do, Khan. Just so long as it comes from you."</p><p>"…Sherlock. Name him Sherlock."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I've tried to integrate both the Star Trek prime universe and Abrams/alternate universe timelines, though there are some discrepancies. Apologies for any Trek-related problems historically but there's just so much material that I'm sure I've made plenty of errors.
> 
> I own nothing, etc. etc.

_July, 1981, London_

The phone was ringing in Cubicle 1064, ninth floor of the Undershaw Cryogenics Headquarters.

The woman at the desk, visibly recently pregnant, picks up on the second ring without checking the caller number.

"Mary Holmes, hello?" she asks breathlessly. This is the third call she's received in the office today and this time she's hoping that this one will be the one she's been waiting for.

"Hello, Mary." She knows within two syllables from the caller's distinctively resonant baritone who exactly has rang her. Two minutes later, she's cleared her desk and called in with her manager to let him know that she'll not be returning to the office until tomorrow.

It takes Mary six agonizing minutes to reach the lobby of Undershaw HQ, and another twenty or so to find a cab and get back to her flat at the edge of town. By which time she can tell from the voices inside who is home.

She pushes her fare through the cab window and dashes to the door, fumbling for her keys, but her footsteps have been heard and identified just seconds before and the door is opened before Mary can look through her bag. She tumbles into the arms of the tall, dark-skinned and well-muscled man in the threshold, who quickly shuts the door before the cabbie or any onlookers can see them.

"Did the delivery go well?" Khan asks, a couple hours later, in the sitting room. Both the baby and the sitter are out, at Mary's request. Mycroft is at school.

Mary sighs. "No better than the first. I wish you could have been there."

Khan frowns. "I've been busy," he says shortly.

"Will you at least stay around long enough to name him?"

The beige couch creaks when they sit down at the same time. "You haven't even named him yet?" Khan asks, surprised.

She smiles at him. "I was waiting for you. You did so well with the first naming, I though you might as well do the second."

"Mary, I thought we'd agreed that I wouldn't take any part in this one's life. He isn't even supposed to know who I am."

Scooting closer, Mary looks up into his face. "Khan Noonien Singh… You won't even be around to raise him, and if this stupid _Botany Bay_ thing does end up happening he'll probably be long dead by the time you wake up but you might at least have the grace to give our son a name… Unless you want me and the seven-year-old to do it but please, just this once, take some time off your "work" and pick a name?"

"I shouldn't even be in England right now, Mary. I shouldn't be wasting my time on this… triviality. This is becoming a distraction."

"You make that sound like a bad thing," she teases. Sobering up, she adds, "He's your _son_ , for God's sake. I know you can come up with something."

Khan pushes her away. "Mary. I really have to go. I shouldn't have come in the first place, but I thought that I'd check in on you and the baby."

"Any name will do, Khan. Just so long as it comes from you." She isn't pleading, but Mary knows that this may well be the last time she'll see him for a long time. Khan has recently been rather enigmatic on certain topics, been away in Asia far too often, consorting with his fellow Augments. She's afraid that she'll lose him, but they'd both agreed on one thing: this second child will not know who his father is. This is Khan's first visit to London since their child was conceived, and he warns that he'll only be gone longer in the future. Mary will raise the child alone, with the help of their older, seven-year-old son, hopefully.

Khan checks the time. He presses a short kiss to Mary's forehead and stands.

"I love you, Mary," he says, barely audible.

"So you do have a heart." She remains seated and crosses her arms. "I'll be dead, too, by the time you wake up."

Khan crosses to the door and pulls his long coat from the rack. "None of that is certain and you know it. It's a fallback position, nothing more, Mary, and I still don't see why you wouldn't be able to come with me if we did launch the _Botany Bay_."

"We discussed that, too. I'm neither willing to leave the children nor put them into cryostasis." Mary still doesn't move.

"Then there is nothing else to say on the subject, wouldn't you agree?" Khan pauses with his hand on the door knob.

Mary tilts her head back and looks at Khan out of the edges of her eyes. "Name him? Please, Khan?"

It's his turn to sigh. "I don't know, Mary."

"If you don't, he'll end up being a John or an Andrew or something pedestrian, and you wouldn't like that, would you? Spit it out. I know you've got something." She finally stands.

Khan looks away, begins to turn the handle. Mary runs to him and stops him before the door can open. This time, the kiss is full and when Khan finally breaks it off, they're both more than a bit light-headed. 

Before he leaves, he gives her a name.

"Sherlock. Name him Sherlock."

=-o

A decade later, the Eugenics Wars begin and when the entire population of Earth is subjugated by the Augments, Mary is infinitely relieved that she'd agreed to be a single parent to Sherlock.

She had her hands full, regardless. Sherlock can be, regardless of Khan's absence, his father's son, and this both excites and worries Mary. Mycroft is some help, having always been less temperamental. They hope that bringing Sherlock up under the right kind of influence will keep him from going the way of his father, and, most of the time, they appear to be succeeding.

o-=

_October, 1991_

This time, when Khan comes, he doesn't call ahead and the whole family is home.

Sherlock is the one who answers the door, since Mary is taking a shower and Mycroft is busy with a thin slice of cake, a rare thing these days under the Augment rule, almost as rare as finding one on your doorstep.

Sherlock is ten years old and, of course, he's never seen the man in front of the Holmes flat before in his life, though he seems the tiniest bit familiar. Sherlock, even though he is barely into his double-digit years, doesn't scare easily, but currently, he is frightened out of his trousers. He's heard of the Augments, of course, though most people don't talk openly about them around little children, but he's never seen one before and Khan Noonien Singh terrifies him enough to let the ten-year-old brain know just what is in front of it.

The door closes with a bang that shakes the whole wall and Sherlock runs to find Mummy.

The children, sent out by Mary, are nearly halfway across the city before either adult speaks, and when Sherlock and Mycroft return, Khan is leaving the flat.

Neither of the Holmes children ever manage to discover from Mary what had happened, so what they know is extrapolated from the fact that Mary's left eye and arm are bruised, though she never complains of them. That, plus the stormy expression on the stranger's face as he'd left, and the sad one on Mary's.

That night, for the first time, Sherlock teaches himself what he will later call deleting files from his mental hard drive, but a ten-year-old, even Sherlock Holmes, can only do so much. He is not entirely successful, and dreams of the encounter with the Augment will haunt him for years, though when he wakes up in a cold sweat, he won't know exactly why.

=-o

Another five years pass and the Augment tyrants are overthrown by dissidents among the population, and all are condemned to death as war criminals. Eighty-four are unaccounted for, the notorious Khan Noonien Singh among them, though in an attempt to keep panic levels down, none of the world's major governments, newly reinstated, release this information to the public.

Mary Holmes, one of the foremost firebrands of the uprising, refuses to impart anything to world leaders, on either her part in the rebellion against the Augments or suspicions regarding the missing eighty-four.

All of this is kept quiet and within less than a decade, Mycroft, Mary's first son, is putting the finishing touches on Operation Tabula Rasa.

o-=

Operation Tabula Rasa: the total erasure of the Augment influence, including the destruction or concealment of any artifacts of the era and the distribution of shiploads of propaganda.

By the year 2005, the majority of the public either is convinced that the half-decade under Augment rule was a mass hallucination brought on by an airborne virus, or that nothing had ever been wrong for the last century. The remaining sceptics don't speak up for fear of being thought insane, or do speak up, and are silenced quickly. Mycroft Holmes spearheads the project.

By the year 2006, Operation Tabula Rasa estimates that there are fewer than a half million people on Earth who consciously remember or care what really happened between 1990 and 1996, including several thousand high-up law enforcement agents, a few hundred major politicians, and several world leaders. The rest are mostly either Tabula Rasa enforcers or major figures from the rebellion. And then there are also the strong-minded, those who refuse to forget.

Sherlock Holmes is, unsurprisingly, one of them. Though Mycroft had intended his little brother to be affected by the project, citing his young age during the period as cause, Sherlock refuses to become one of the ignorant masses and Mycroft gives up two years into the project. The animosity remains between the brothers, however, and before Sherlock reaches his majority he has moved out of the Holmes residence and, a few years later, refuses to live in the new, massive estate house that Mycroft has bought for the family.

=-o

The _SS Botany Bay_ —and Sherlock and Mycroft's father—is floating out in space, sub-warp. For almost three centuries, it will be undisturbed.

Meanwhile, Terra spins on and the legacy of the Augments will live on in the world's only consulting detective, though he doesn't know it yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it and more to come sometime in the future.
> 
> EDIT: My Khan looks like Ricardo Montalbán's Khan. I'll probably be using some lines from Benedict's Khan but the character is mostly based off of Khan Prime. Oh and yes, this Khan is Indian. And he'll be coming back.
> 
> 1 Mar 2016: Ha so no, he's not coming back, at least (probably) not in this fic. See the final note at the end of Chapter 6 for a bit more of an explanation but I've decided to mark the thing as complete after a couple years of inactivity.


	2. Doctor

John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, is rather surprised when he bumps into one Michael Stamford, an old acquaintance from med school.

Within half an hour, however, he is even further surprised: by the man Mike introduces to him in the lab at St. Bart’s, the one who appears to know everything about John from the minute he looks at him.

And before he knows it, he’s moved into a flat with Sherlock Holmes.

He doesn’t even know what exactly it is the man does for a living. “Consulting detective” isn’t exactly specific, but within forty-eight hours of meeting the man—even less, in fact—John knows that this is the kind of life he wants to lead: chasing London’s criminals, dashing through the streets at night, taking the most ridiculous risks.

John is immensely glad – no, overjoyed, ecstatic – that he’s met Sherlock. It takes his mind off missing Afghanistan, and, even more importantly, it helps him both remember and forget the One Big Thing.

o-=

“You’re up early” is all that Sherlock says when he comes into the kitchen at two in the morning, John sitting in the next room, wide awake.

Last night had been atrociously calm after the adrenaline-infused night two days before, at the pool. 

John had thought that, after war, he wouldn’t have been able to be frightened by something like two nights ago. But it had shaken John, because he’d seen in Moriarty something he hadn’t thought possible, not now.

He hadn’t been truly afraid, not when he’d turned around too late and had a chloroformed rag pressed to his face, not when he’d woken up behind the colorful curtain, the faint smell of chlorine coming from outside the little room. Not even when he’d taken in the explosives—semtex, he’d thought—strapped to his body under the large parka he was wearing.

But when he’d heard the voice, and seen the face, the man _Moriarty_ , it brought back memories of the One Big Thing that Henry Watson had taught him about, warned him about.

=-o

_Listen, John, listen very carefully to what I’m about to tell you._

John’s father, Henry, was a soldier, a part of a resistance that still existed, in its own way, today, though its members did not.

Today, however, almost nobody remembers his war.

_In the nineteen-fifties, the Cold War era, a group of very ambitious scientists began experimentation in manipulating the human genome, in order to improve the human race and, perhaps, to bring about a time of peace and harmony on Earth._

When John was twenty-two, his father visited him, for the first time since their quarrel years ago, and told him about the conflict known today among a few select as the Eugenics Wars.

_The genetically engineered individuals were almost everything that the scientists had dreamed of: brilliant, unnaturally strong, able to live for far longer than the average human. What they hadn’t realized, John, was that superior ability, in most cases, breeds superior ambition, and the ambition of the Augments far surpassed anything the scientists could have expected._

_By the time the issue was spotted, it was too late, and most of the civilized world was under the control of Augment tyrants._

The Augments were defeated just under five years after they’d taken power, and the project calling itself Operation Tabula Rasa had begun erasing the evidence of everything from genetic experimentation to extrasystem space travel and, most importantly, the events of the Eugenics Wars.

_The thing that almost nobody knows, even among we who remember the Wars, is that some of the Augments went missing and were never executed, including the most notorious of them all: Khan Noonien Singh._

Henry Watson died two years later, in the year 2002, in an apparent accident.

John suspects otherwise: His father, one of the two remaining Eugenics rebels known, had always suspected that some of the missing Augments had remained on Earth, and John agreed, especially after his father’s death.

His father is the reason why John became a soldier himself.

_Remember what I’ve told you, John. Never forget. ___

____

o-=

John sighs and rubs his eyes. “Could say the same of you, you know.”

Sherlock moves to the other room and stands in front of John, looks him up and down just once.

“Bad dream,” he states quietly.

John nods.

“What was it about?” Sherlock asks, his voice surprisingly tender, and John is a little shocked that he’s even bothered asking.

“Moriarty,” John says truthfully. He trusts Sherlock implicitly, but there are some things that he isn’t sure he’s ready to tell anyone, not yet.

He wonders if Mycroft knows about the Wars. If there’s one other person John knows who understands the truth about the Augments, it’s Mycroft. So if Mycroft is in the know, is Sherlock?

The problem with keeping secrets, while not knowing who else knows, is that one cannot ask another if they know or not. It’s a conundrum for John.

Eventually, however, Sherlock will be the first person John tells. It’s only a matter of when, but regardless of the amount of time they’ve lived together, if John were to be honest with himself, he doesn’t really know that much about his flatmate.

“Mm,” Sherlock says. John can tell that he knows that there’s more, but for once Sherlock doesn’t push for more information.

Half an hour later, after sitting in the quiet and dark with Sherlock in the other chair, John drifts back to sleep.

=-o

Shortly after, Sherlock and John get called to Buckingham Palace, Sherlock views photos of a Woman, and 221B Baker Street gains a new, very fine ashtray.

o-=

John is unable to tell Sherlock that Irene is dead, so he goes with Mycroft’s lie.

It makes him nearly furious at himself, that he’s jealous of a dead woman, but he couldn’t stand to see Sherlock the way he was, the first time he’d thought Irene was dead, and he isn’t about to cause him any more pain.

After Irene, life in 221B goes on, and Sherlock doesn’t show any sign of trying to find her, which, embarrassingly, relieves John.

=-o

Sherlock’s always been a distant character, outwardly unemotional, brilliant but detached. But Sherlock at Baskerville surprises John, in more ways than he can count.

o-=

“I don’t have _friends_ ,” Sherlock says vehemently, and John is so entirely taken aback that all he says is, “Nah. I wonder why.”

He leaves the pub, walks around outside. The flashing lights on the hill are back tonight, and this time John goes to investigate, alone.

When he arrives, however, he finds that he’s made an awkward mistake and, embarrassed, turns his torch away from the couple in the car.

=-o

Later, Sherlock spots John in the village graveyard and he is unable to escape from his sight. Sherlock dogs him as he walks away, attempting to start up a conversation, but John’s still irked by the night before.

“John, wait. What happened last night, something happened to me, something I’ve not really experienced before…” His voice actually catches. John doesn’t turn around.

“Yes, you said. Sherlock Holmes got scared,” John isn’t ready to forgive his flatmate this easily, but Sherlock’s hand grabs his arm and though John tries to twist away, he can’t.

Facing Sherlock, he finds that he can actually see some remorse in that face, usually cut glass or stone.

“It was more than that, John. It was doubt. _I felt doubt_. I’ve always been able to trust my senses, until last night-“

“You can’t actually believe that you saw some kind of monster,” John says skeptically.

“ _No_ , no I can’t, but I did see it, so the question is, _how_?”

John starts to walk away again. “Right, good. So you’ve got something to go on, then? Good luck with that.”

He can practically feel waves coming off of Sherlock, and when he calls out again, John isn’t surprised.

“Listen, what I said before, John, I meant it.”

Something in the tone of his voice makes John turn around slightly.

“I don’t have friends,” Sherlock says.

John is ready to leave at this point, but Sherlock isn’t done. Biting his lip, almost _anxiously_ , he says, “I’ve just got one.”

The statement shocks John, but it fills him with a sudden feeling of warmth that makes him look away self-consciously before glancing back at Sherlock. He nods once, says, “Right.”

Reconciliation isn’t difficult, and John can’t stand not talking to Sherlock any longer.

o-=

After they’ve solved the case, however, Sherlock admits to something that startles John again, who’s had far too many surprises from his flatmate recently.

“I _had_ to. It was an experiment.”

John starts shaking in anger. After all they’ve been through, now _this_? “ _An experiment?_ I was terrified, Sherlock. I was scared to death.”

“I thought that the drug was in the sugar, so I put the sugar in your coffee,” Sherlock admits, “then I arranged everything with Major Barrymore,” he pauses when John sighs, “It was all _totally_ scientific, laboratory conditions.”

John flashes back to his experience in the lab. He remembers how certain he was that he was going to die, the utter panic that had taken him over.

“Well, I knew what effect it had had on a superior mind, so I needed to try it on an average one,” Sherlock concludes.

John gapes at him.

“You know what I mean.”

“But it wasn’t in the sugar,” John realizes.

“No…” Sherlock says slowly.

He almost wants to laugh, even now. “So you were wrong. You got it _wrong_.”

It’s Sherlock’s turn to sigh. “A bit. It won’t happen again.”

And after a while, John manages to forgive this, too.


	3. Detective

Some things never change. Bad things, like the way Augments still haunt John’s dreams weekly, and good things, like the way Sherlock will stay up with John when this happens.

Some things do change: the way Sherlock has, after John’s nightmares, started sleeping in John’s room, first on the floor, which he says he doesn’t mind, and later in the bed. They haven’t gotten beyond just sleeping yet, but John still has hope yet.

He still doesn’t quite understand Sherlock. The man can be infuriating at times, utterly oblivious to the feelings of others, including John, and yet go back to 221B and become so completely in touch with what John needs, which he proves when John becomes sick for the first time in years, and neglects a case ( _case_!) in order to be with him.

At least Sherlock’s stopped experimenting on John.

Baskerville has started to intrude in John’s nightmares, however, along with Moriarty. He doubts that there is any connection between the Augments and the genetic experimentation at the Baskerville labs, but they made him uneasy whilst he was there and still remind him of his father’s stories when he remembers the HOUND case.

=-o

John was in his early teens when the Eugenics Wars began. His father, a strong opponent of genetic experimentation, had raised him with the same beliefs as him: that genetic manipulation was wrong, immoral, and ungodly. Though his parents’ Catholic beliefs never truly took hold in him, John has always agreed with their genetic engineering views.

When the Augments took over, it only solidified this view, and both of the Watson parents fought with everything they had in order to take down the regime.

The Eugenics Wars ended with the human dissidents victorious, but John had lost a parent by then. Vera Watson had been killed by an Augment in one of the first battles.

John remembered this only for a few years, until Operation Tabula Rasa swept away his memories of the Wars. He was one of the first targeted because of his proximity to his father, and by 2001, the drugs that Tabula Rasa had exposed him to had made his entire time as a teenager hazy. Under Tabula Rasa’s influence, he’d even believed that he’d fought with his father years ago, and refused to speak with him.

The next year, however, Henry Watson had come back to tell John the truth, and it hadn’t taken much to unblock the memories that had been suppressed.

John blames much of the tragedy and loss in his life on the influence of the Augments and the scientists who created them. He still does today, but the bitterness is no longer as wanted, as needed, as it used to be.

These days, however, John is a new man. 

John knows now that he is almost ready to tell Sherlock everything. And if the missing eighty-four Augments are still on Earth, well, who knows? Maybe it will be their next case.

A new man… He has a brilliant flatmate—a brilliant _friend_ —, a wonderful life in solving London’s mysteries, and _nothing_ can be ruined by the Augments now.

o-=

Sherlock tips his head back and yawns slowly, watching John out of the corner of his eye.

He’s never been in a truly romantic relationship ever, unless his little stint with Victor counted, but that was in uni, and though it wasn’t exactly a one-night stand, he doesn’t think that it qualified as a romance.

Sherlock’s never thought of himself as the kind of man to fall in love, and he’s still not sure if this is that.

He’s slept with women—and men—, but those times had always been strictly in the interest of gathering information. He’s never felt any real attraction.

It was always clinical, cold—at least in his mind. He’d never allow the other to feel that the relationship was anything but real.

So this is new, he supposes. View it as an experiment, and maybe something will come of it.

He wants to laugh. He isn’t even convincing himself.

Sherlock turns his attention to John, who is reading today’s newspaper in his chair, opposite of Sherlock. The front page says something about some new piece of legislation that Parliament has been playing with, but Sherlock’s more interested in the man behind the paper.

The first glance at his face tells Sherlock that John’s been out with his latest girlfriend—Lisa, he thinks, but he’d never saved her name so he’s not entirely sure—, ate at Angelo’s but argued with the girl at the end… earlier went to the bank but forgot his card. Altogether not in a very pleasant mood.

=-o

Sherlock’s been able to read people since childhood. He perfected the skill before he was a teenager, but he’d always assumed, up until he’d stopped living with Mummy and Mycroft, that it was an ability anyone could teach themselves if they started early enough.

After he’d left his family, he’d become more curious about his father and, after quite a bit of digging, including a period of sneaking around Tabula Rasa Headquarters, he’d uncovered the truth of his origins.

When he’d learned that the man who he vaguely remembered coming to his home in 1991 was his father, and, more specifically, who he was, he’d turned to drugs, because he’d known of Khan Noonien Singh, the Augment, before he’d known of his father.

It was one of the few things Sherlock has ever regretted doing in his life.

o-=

John’s closed up the newspaper. Sherlock watches him as he walks out the doorway to the stairs.

Sherlock doesn’t predict any nightmares tonight, so he won’t have an excuse to sleep in John’s room. He wonders if John feels toward him the way he feels toward John. From his deductions, he’d guess this is so, but as John has reminded him constantly, some things cannot be deduced, the state of the heart included.

Sherlock watches John’s retreating back, headed towards the bedroom upstairs.

Regardless of either of their feelings, Sherlock decides, he isn’t going to enter into a true relationship until John knows the truth of his heritage, and the reality of the events of the nineties. After all, he can’t accept that Mycroft’s Tabula Rasa will keep John from knowing the truth. Hopefully he won’t take it too badly.

He resolves to tell John soon, maybe as soon as he finishes the missing waterfall painting case.

=-o

Unfortunately, before Sherlock can find a suitable time to tell John his secret, outside events intervene.

A few days later, Sherlock retrieves the Reichenbach Falls painting, and within days, he is swamped with new cases, new _fans_ , for god’s sake, and plenty of those idiotic reporters who seem to think that the only article of clothing that he wears is a ridiculous-looking hat.

John thinks it’s funny, which alleviates a little of the stupidity, but Sherlock’d never meant to become a media sensation.

This, unfortunately, doesn’t keep him from enjoying it, at least a little, if he were to be honest with himself.

He goes through cases faster than John can write about them, which is saying a lot.

He feels _brilliant_ ; it’s absolutely wonderful, this peak in his career, though he has been getting quite a lot of requests for missing pets, which irks him.

It’s all going so superbly, when Jim Moriarty shows up again. Robbing the Bank of England, breaking into Pentonville Prison, and dressing himself up in the Crown Jewels, simultaneously.

Sherlock can’t help but have a little respect for the man. More than a little, in fact.

It doesn’t stop him from trying to show off, during Moriarty’s court case, but he can’t help himself. The consulting criminal is almost goading him when he makes eye contact, and he wants to make an impression, _something_ , because Jim Moriarty is the first person he’s truly considered a worthy opponent.

This is only confirmed when Moriarty manages to be declared not guilty. He walks free, and Sherlock sets the pot on the stove, makes tea for two.

o-=

After Moriarty leaves, Sherlock stares at the apple on the table for a very long time. Jim was right: he _is_ a bit glad that the criminal is still on the streets, that the verdict hadn’t been against him, because he needs distraction, something to alleviate the boredom that always seems to take over. He knows what John would say to this: _Bit not good_.

But what about “the fall”? Sherlock ponders Jim’s words, and he can only guess at what the consulting criminal has in mind next.

Sherlock doesn’t mention the visit to John when he returns to the flat.

o-=

Soon after, Lestrade comes to 221B with another case.

Saint Aldate’s School, part-time home of an ambassador’s children, is large and stately, and extremely expensive, though apparently not so expensive that child safety is guaranteed, because the ambassador’s children are missing.

It takes Sherlock a scraping from the floor and a short time in the lab at St. Bart’s to find the children, and just in time, too, because they’re slowly being killed by mercury poisoning, though they don’t know it.

And then, the rescued girl screams upon seeing Sherlock at the Yard, and all starts to roll slowly downhill.

=-o

Moriarty is everywhere in Sherlock’s mind tonight, and it really doesn’t help when the video starts playing in the cab, nor when Jim turns out to be the one driving.

The next several hours are a blur, even to Sherlock.

Lestrade coming in with the warrant for his arrest, his escape with John.

The confrontation with Kitty Riley, that infernal, senseless reporter girl, with Moriarty, _Richard Brook_ , and his lies.

And then, leaving John, and meeting Molly at Bart’s, because he needs help. She’s the first person he tells the truth to, but if what he has in mind goes according to plan, she won’t be the only one.

o-=

John arrives at Bart’s some time later, Sherlock sends a text, and they wait.

Around sunrise, John receives a call.

“What happened? Is she okay?” A pause, and then, “Oh my God. Right, yes, I’m coming.”

Sherlock has his feet up on the lab table. He asks quietly, “What happened?”

“Paramedics. Mrs. Hudson, she’s been shot.”

“What? How?”

John is frantic. “Well, probably one of the killers you managed to attract… Jesus, _Jesus_ , she’s _dying_ , Sherlock. Let’s go.” He turns toward the door.

Sherlock doesn’t move. “You go. I’m busy,” he says, disinterestedly.

Shocked, and somewhat outraged, John turns back around. “ _Busy_?”

“Thinking. I need to think.”

John is furious by now. “You need to—? Doesn’t she mean anything to you? You once half killed a man because he laid a finger on her!”

Sherlock shrugs. “She’s my landlady,” he says, by way of answer.

“ _She’s dying_ ,” John’s hand thrashes as he tries to contemplate Sherlock’s attitude, then gives up.

“ _You machine_ ,” he spits.

Sherlock almost breaks down right now. He’s almost ready to tell John the truth, that it isn’t real, that Mrs. Hudson is fine. To say, _Don’t go._

And John turns around and leaves. “Sod this. Sod this. You stay here if you want, on your own.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath, but keeps it silent so John can’t hear him. “Alone is what I have. Alone protects me.”

John opens the door and glares back at his flatmate. “No. Friends protect people.”

After he storms out of the room, Sherlock’s phone alerts him to a new text message. He knows before checking who it’s from.

He heads for the roof.

o-=

He can hear the music before he reaches the top of the stairs.

The sunlight washes the rooftop, and Sherlock decides that it is entirely too bright for this kind of meeting.

“Staying alive! It’s so… boring, isn’t it? It’s just… staying.”

=-o

“That’s your weakness: You always want everything to be clever. Now, shall we finish the game? One final act… Glad you chose a tall building, nice way to do it.”

“Do it? Do what? …Yes, of course, my suicide.”

“ ‘Genius detective proved to be a fraud.’ I read it in the paper, so it must be true.” Jim grins widely. “But that’s not all, Sherlock, nooo, because you still think you can win this, don’t you? Did Kitty tell you? The other special thing that’s going to be in today’s paper?” Without waiting for Sherlock to respond, he continues, leer growing. “Nah, she didn’t, silly girl, but I will.

“Y’see, there was this thing that happened a few years ago, round nineteen-ninety, hmm? I believe your own brother, dear Mycroft, coined the term “the Eugenics Wars”, didn’t he?”

Sherlock’s brow furrows in confusion.

Moriarty continues. “But then, you knew that already, didn’t you, _Mr. Singh?_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, so that was a kind of crap chapter, way too rushed and all, but god I really want to get to the next chapter and I was running out of things to say so... wish there was more romantic tension but I'm not that great at that kind of writing...
> 
> sigh...
> 
> Anyhow, hopefully the next one will be better (I like it a lot more, too).


	4. Soldier

John very nearly resorts to physical violence in order to preempt the man trying to get into the cab, and mutters an excuse about being the police, sort of. The other man scowls at him but John has shouted, “St. Bart’s Hospital” and the cab is already screeching away from the kerb.

o-=

Sherlock is frozen in place for what very well may be the first time in his life. He manages to raise his face and locks eyes with Moriarty, who is still grinning from ear to ear.

The morning sun is still beating down hard in the white rooftop, and Sherlock can barely think. Another first.

“It’ll be all over the news by this time tomorrow, I guarantee it, Sherlock. And I don’t mean some small-time gossip like the one Miss Riley writes for, no, this will be the front story of all the major news corporations. It’ll be out of the country within twenty-four hours, and by then nothing will be able to stop it.” Moriarty turns his back to Sherlock, feigning disinterest, though Sherlock can feel tension radiating from the man.

“They’ll go for you first, Sherlock. And then your brother and his cronies, all the high-clearance government workers in all the governments, and it won’t matter if they were involved or not.

“Do you know how _angry_ even ordinary people can get, Sherlock? You just can’t beat the numbers. Humans won the first war, and they’ll win this one, too, but this time they won’t leave anything like you around to interfere.”

Moriarty’s voice is nearing passionate for the first time, breaking its façade of indifference, and this is when it hits Sherlock. He walks toward the consulting criminal and grabs his shoulder, spinning him to face him, and his theory is confirmed when Jim flinches very slightly at his touch.

“What did they do?” Sherlock asks.

A long pause follows. The quiet buzz of the streets below is starting to pick up.

After a few minutes, Jim breaks the gap.

“They— _you_ —were supposed to be the dawn of a new era, of peace, did you know, Sherlock? They were intended to be enforcers of the law, enforcers of _harmony_ , can you imagine? The idea was that superior intelligence would know what was best for the human race, how best to lead it.

“But you _Augments_ ruined all that, didn’t you? How was it put among the eventual revolutionaries? ‘Superior ability breeds superior ambition.’ Threw the metaphorical wrench into the experiment, and you know how that feels, don’t you, to have an experiment ruined?”

Sherlock can see it now. “All the scientists were killed trying to fix the ‘experiment’, as you call it. Someone close to you was one of them, maybe more than one someone…?”

Jim doesn’t reply, but Sherlock knows it now.

Bitterness, even hatred, can be a paralytic in most people, but in James Moriarty’s mind, it has apparently become a powerful motivator. Not to crime, Sherlock decides, since Jim most likely would have become a criminal no matter what, all things considered.

So it hasn’t driven him to crime, but rather to put himself at risk, something he rarely has done in the past. His face is in the newspapers, his name is out, and he’s inadvertently changed his _modus operandi_.

One of the reasons why Sherlock hadn’t been able to track the criminal Moriarty down was his extreme caution, his refusal to carry out his own crimes, instead choosing to mastermind from behind the curtains.

Now, however, he’s been reckless, exposed himself even a _little_ , and chosen to let his name become public.

Sherlock still doesn’t know much about Jim, but he can guess at the reason why he no longer is trying to be cautious with his own life.

=-o

John tries to calm down, telling himself that the cab can’t go any faster without causing an accident, and as a doctor he shouldn’t under any circumstances have a reason to cause injury, but he can’t convince himself. Images invade his mind: of Sherlock, drugged and kidnapped; Sherlock, dead in a back alleyway; Moriarty and Sherlock grappling on the roof of a tall building; even Moriarty revealing that he is one of the missing eighty-four Augments, though John knows his age isn’t right, even for a slow-aging genetically augmented superhuman.

He stares out the window, but it only serves to remind him that the vehicle won’t move fast enough and he returns his gaze to the empty seat next to him.

John can’t help but think that the Eugenics Wars are involved in this in some way, though he can’t be sure, as all the scientists were killed by their own creations and the Augments were, in turn, killed after the wars—excepting the eighty-four, he remembers again.

o-=

“You know, Sherlock, this has been a load off my back. Truly.

“You don’t believe me? _Honestly_ , carrying this kind of hatred around, it’s a real burden, even for me. And now? _Now,_ I won’t _have_ to anymore, because here’s what’s going to happen in the next few minutes.” The gleeful smile is back on Jim’s face, broader than ever.

“I’ll say it slowly, just so it’s clear to you, because if you don’t follow my instructions exactly, well, let me give you a little extra incentive. Your friends will die if you don’t.”

 _Friends_. The wretched word hits Sherlock almost physically. He used to think that he didn’t have friends; after all, caring… caring wasn’t an advantage. One of the things Mycroft had been right about. Presently, it isn’t helping his position at all. He wasn’t supposed to _care_ so much.

And a little voice at the back of his mind whispers, _But John_.

He’d said it to Irene, hadn’t he? _Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side_.

He certainly doesn’t feel like he’s winning, just now.

“John,” Sherlock breathes. Dear god, _John_.

Jim’s still smiling. “Not just John.” He lowers his voice, whispers in close. “Everyone.”

Sherlock remembers the apple, the graffiti, the windows. He exhales, “Mrs. Hudson.”

“ _Everyone_ ,” Jim says, now practically dancing with glee.

“Lestrade.” Sherlock wonders why he hadn’t stolen John’s Sig so he could’ve blasted the evil bastard’s smug face into pieces, but soon he’ll realize that this wouldn’t have helped his situation a bit.

“Three bullets, three gunmen, three victims. There’s no stopping them now,” Jim says, moving away from Sherlock.

“Unless my people see you jump,” he completes.

Sherlock gazes out behind Jim, not seeing him. The London skyline, beyond the ledge of the St. Bart’s roof, is still and cold. The metaphorical calm before the storm.

“Your only friends in the world will die, unless…”

Moriarty pauses, waits. Sherlock finishes the sentence, resignedly. “Unless I jump. Complete your story.”

“You’ve gotta admit that’s sexier.” The bizarre grin just doesn’t go away, and Jim still has more to say.

=-o

John hits the ground running, but slows after he nearly plants his face in the asphalt. Striding quickly toward the entrance to Bart’s, his mobile rings and he answers to Sherlock’s voice.

“John.”

“Sherlock, are you okay?”

“Turn around and walk back the way you came now.” Sherlock’s baritone might or might not shake slightly, but the quality of his voice is distorted by the phone.

John protests, making to go into the building.

“Just do as I ask. _Please._ John, leave now, I’m begging you, don’t be here.”

If there is one thing that John will not do, it’s what Sherlock is directing him to right now. He refuses.

Sherlock speaks again. “John, I—An apology.”

“For what? No, wait, no you aren’t saying—"

Deep breaths on the other end of the line, uneven. “Not exactly, no.

“John, what did your father do? While he was alive, what was he like? _What did he tell you_?” Sherlock asks, calmly now.

John doesn’t want to know where this is going. “Stop, Sherlock, get off the ledge, we’ll talk, whatever the problem is, don’t do this.”

“Never mind, forget that. You’ll see it soon, I suppose—“ he breaks off, and the static in John’s ears crackles unevenly in contrast with Sherlock’s heavy breathing in the other end of the line.

o-=

Sherlock knows with absolute certainty that in a few seconds, all the ties he’s made in the last few years will be worth nothing, there will be no more _John and Sherlock_ , and everything they’ve done together will have gone up in smoke.

He spares a moment to wish that he’d burned his bridges better. It would have been less painful in the long run, he supposes, but it’s too late for that here so all he says now is, “Goodbye, John.”

He lowers the phone and then lets the device fall from his right hand, staring straight ahead.

Sherlock spreads his arms.

=-o

Sherlock falls gracelessly, and quickly, and John can do nothing but stare up in stupid astonishment, because his heart has stopped and his lungs are no longer sending oxygen to his brain.

It’s the part when Sherlock tips forward that appears slow, when his feet are still connected to the cement ledge on the roof of St. Bart’s and John can still believe that Sherlock can save himself if he wants to.

But as soon as his body leaves the edge, Sherlock plummets, arms flailing uselessly, like an attempt in vain to slow his fall, and to John the drop is quick, over almost in a blink.

The pavement appears to rush up to eagerly meet his friend, and John can hear the sickening _slap_ as flesh meets concrete and the crack that seems to split the air and echo through John’s mind so that he cannot hear for several seconds, or so it seems.

The world must stop turning now, he knows, because his best friend is lying on the pavement, still, and this is simply not an option, not in John’s world. He wants to run to Sherlock but his legs will not move, and this is both fortunate and unfortunate, because if he’d tried to move he would have surely tripped, and this way he is erect when the unthinkable happens.

 

Because Sherlock gets up, and when the world starts spinning again, John feels as if he will be flung off the surface of the earth.

He is being torn in little bits, destroyed from the inside ever so slowly as his brain struggles to comprehend the impossible.

_The thing that almost nobody knows, even among we who remember the Wars, is that some of the Augments went missing and were never executed._

_Remember what I’ve told you, John. Never forget._

John’s heart mutinies, and all starts to fade as Sherlock struggles to his feet, to explain, an agonized expression on his face as he looks at John.

Whose mind is lost in a loop as black fills his vision:

_sherlocksherlocksherlockAUGMENTsherlock?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... don't know what you thought of it but this was my favorite chapter so far.
> 
> Hope there was emotion in there and as usual, more to come some undetermined time in the future.


	5. Augment

_Ten minutes earlier_

“Unless I jump. Complete your story.”

“You’ve gotta admit that’s sexier.” Moriarty grins ecstatically, almost, and the grin is almost enough to finish Sherlock off right then.

He holds his breath, because he knows that the madman isn’t finished speaking.

“You see, it won’t end there. Because although you might actually live—even I don’t know if your bones can withstand the impact—, you won’t ever be left alone in your life. You’ll be locked up on the spot, just because you didn’t die, and when they find my dead body on the roof, well, that _will_ do it for you, won’t it? You and the rest of your kind, and darling Mycroft and all the rest. They’ll hunt them down, find the rest of the missing monsters, and finally end them.

“Death, or life with shame and humiliation, Sherlock? Do you think you could stand that?

“And what about your friends, hmm? Ruin their lives with tragedy if you die, ruin them with association with you if you survive. I intend to win this no matter what, you understand, in whatever form I can, though I won’t live to see it.”

The laughs are coming in gasps now, thick and insane.

The detective blinks slowly, barely comprehending. “You—won’t… live to see it?”

“Oh no, Sherlock. You’re going to be the man who killed me, the genetically enhanced monster guilty of the murder of the man he framed for countless other crimes. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

And it is, a little bit. Even now, Sherlock can see the beauty in the plan, laid out so carefully, logically. The way the bits fall together like the pieces of a grand puzzle…

Jim is still grinning ridiculously. “In fact, that’s your fate no matter if you jump or not, but one way your friends live, and the other, they die.

“I’ll give you some time to think, but in the end, it’s a simple question with a very obvious answer, and what do you think that is?”

o-=

_Now_

Sherlock pulls himself to his feet dazedly.

He’s in shock, more so than ever in his life, and not surprisingly. He’s just jumped from a roof and lived.

Sherlock puts his hand to his head. It comes away crimson and sticky. He starts to probe the wound numbly but he sees John then, and the doctor is staring at him in horror. Sherlock sees his knees give out and the man crumbles to the ground.

He recalls, abruptly, a conversation with Mycroft, back when he’d first met John. A warning that he’d ignored.

_His father fought in the Wars, Sherlock. Fought for the humans, as if I need to tell you that, and if he finds out about your heritage the wrong way he won’t take it lightly._

Suddenly, the only important thing now is John, convincing him that this isn’t what it looks like. That he isn’t his father, nor any of his comrades.

He staggers, balance unsettled and eyes wide, while his friend picks himself up and fights to do the same.

And John turns on his heel—in revulsion? Fear?—and starts to run.

=-o

John reels as he regains his senses. He meets Sherlock’s eyes for a fraction of a second before he spins, and, unconsciously, his legs start to move as fast as they can.

John, as an army doctor, is very familiar with the fight-or-flight, or acute stress, response. He understands the chemistry of the reaction: Chemical messengers are released in order to trigger the hormone cortisol, causing other reactions required to boost energy. Adrenaline activates physical reactions preparing for intense muscular activity, including accelerated heart and lung action, the slowing of digestion, loss of hearing, and tunnel vision.

Heightened emotional state, and attention to negative stimuli, is also extremely common.

John Watson has faced predators many times in the past. During his service in Afghanistan, and during his many adventures with his flatmate. But never has the enemy been so familiar.

Sherlock Holmes is not an animal, like the Baskerville hound, nor a faceless shape, like the troops in the Middle East. He’s a man, and not only that, he’s _Sherlock Holmes_ , John’s best friend. He _lived_ with the man for the last couple years of his life.

And yet, in a couple short minutes, he becomes the thing that John’s father had told him to most fear. The thing that, in fact, had caused the death of both of his parents and countless more.

So John runs. It’s an instinctive reaction, and not one that he plans on stopping for the moment.

Yet another of the effects of heightened stress is limited cognitive function. When John regains this briefly, he realizes the obvious: he can’t possibly outrun an Augment.

o-=

Sherlock’s vision is still slightly off when he starts moving, so he stumbles a little, but he begins to run nevertheless and is less than ten meters from John when the other man jumps in a cab and the vehicle screeches away from the kerb.

His breathing grows deeper, heart pumps harder, and Sherlock’s legs are a blur when he accelerates.

The cab rounds a corner, a light changes to red, but Sherlock runs.

He keeps the taxi just in his sights for several blocks. At a red light far ahead, he sees John’s face turn back, through a gap in the traffic. The sight spurs Sherlock on and he closes the distance, inch by inch.

The cab navigates towards lighter traffic, and speeds along, but Sherlock starts to gain, heedless of traffic. At one point he jumps over a car, moving too slow for his liking, and at several times he is forced to make use of the rooftops.

He continues to gain, though the cab speeds up, and he can see his friend’s face, white and panicked, through the back window.

It takes three blocks to close the gap from six feet to five feet, but he does. It takes even longer to close it to four, and then three, but somewhere near the London city limit, Sherlock reaches the point where he could touch the cab with his fingers if he tried.

His legs move faster still, running alongside the cab, and he sees John clearly through the window. The man has scooted to the other side of the seat, and is fumbling at his jacket, but he can’t pull his gun without the cabbie stopping immediately.

=-o

John glances out the back window of the taxicab. The detective is gaining, impossibly, and John urges the cabbie to drive out towards the edges of the city, where there should be less traffic, and the man obliges, spurred on by the promise of a hefty sum.

They’re miles from Bart’s, and John’s had a head start, but Sherlock is closer still and then, at one point, he is running next to the cab, keeping pace.

Even the cabbie is startled by this, but stays silent. John reminds himself to empty his pockets for the man—if they get out of this.

They speed along. John promises the cab driver that he’ll compensate for any traffic violations he makes.

John doesn’t even know where he is anymore, simply shouting out directions as each intersection approaches, but somehow they circle, or were driven by fate, to this final destination:

Half a block from New Scotland Yard, Sherlock throws himself in front of the cab, and the driver is forced to slam on the brakes. Vehicular manslaughter, it appears, is not a crime he’s willing to commit for any amount of currency.

o-=

Wild-eyed, John throws the entire contents of his billfold at the cabbie and flies out the door.

He lands nearly in the arms of Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, who seems to be in a hurry.

“John!” Lestrade exclaims, looking at the doctor in puzzlement. “We heard that there’d been an accident at Bart’s. A witness said that it’d looked like Sherlock…” he trails off when he notices the man steadying himself on the hood of the cab, drenched with sweat, face bloodied. “Good God!”

John starts running again, but Lestrade stops him. “John, what’s going on? What happened to Sherlock?”

John mutters something incoherent. Sherlock walks over, breathing heavily, but not as heavily as he should be, John notes.

He can almost see the other man’s pulse from here, but maybe that’s an illusion. Sherlock approaches, and John recoils back into Lestrade.

“I take it there wasn’t an accident, then?” Lestrade asks.

“Not of the nature you’re supposing, no.” Sherlock, at least, is able to form an intelligible sentence.

Lestrade frowns. “But was anyone hurt?”

John moans.

Sherlock’s voice drops. “Not—not physically.”

The DI’s eyes widen. “Should I ask?”

“Probably.”

=-o

It takes ten minutes for John to calm down, but he won’t look at his flatmate as they drive back to Baker Street for some privacy. Lestrade goes with them.

“Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe you’ve got a lot of explaining to do.” Lestrade directs his words towards Sherlock.

Sherlock and John sit in their usual chairs, though John fidgets endlessly and looks as if he’s about to run away again. Lestrade stands awkwardly in the middle.

John mutters, “Go away.” His glare shifts, for the first time, to the Inspector.

Something in the doctor’s tone warns Lestrade away. “Maybe I should,” he concurs, slowly.

He lets himself out quietly with a look that says he’ll want an explanation later, and the tension level only increases.

Sherlock doesn’t take his eyes away from the doctor. John can feel his eyes burning through him, just like the first time they’d met, but this time reading his emotions, not his identity. He keeps his hand ready, jacket open, but now that the adrenaline rush is mostly over, he doesn’t know if he could shoot his flatmate, even knowing now what he knows.

o-=

Sherlock counts the seconds of silence, starting from the time the downstairs door slams, faintly. So he knows when five minutes have passed, and ten, and at fifteen in finally brings himself to speak, since John certainly isn’t going to.

“Okay, I’ll begin.”

John starts, as if out of a daydream, when Sherlock speaks.

“My father’s name was Khan Noonien Singh.”

Hearing Sherlock say it out loud is not as much of a shock as John’d thought it would be. He remains silent, wondering where exactly he’d heard the name before. He tries to recall which Augment, which character in his father’s stories Khan Noonien Singh had been, but he can’t for the life of him remember. It’s not the real issue now, however.

“He was born in a lab in the year 1959, a product of genetic engineering, initially designed to better the human race. He and his fellow Augments, as they are called today among the few who remember, were built with qualities that included enhanced strength, agility, and intelligence, as well as increased immune systems, fast healing, longer lifespans, and acute senses.” His voice is clinical. “But you knew this all already, didn’t you?

“I’ll skip past the other traits, then. I won’t go into detail about the Eugenics Wars,” John is thankful for this, at least. “But they started in 1992, when my father’s generation of Augments took power in many of the major countries on Earth. My father was the first. He ruled over approximately a quarter of the planet’s inhabited land, centering around Asia and the Middle East.”

John knows now where he’d heard the name. Khan had been the most notorious of the tyrants. There had never once been a mention, however, of the Augment having children.

But now he finds his son sitting in front of him, very much alive. Not good, in more ways than one.


	6. Explanations

“Stop.” John takes a deep breath. Lets it out again.

Sherlock pauses, his gaze piercing. “If you don’t want to hear this right now, we can resume at a later time, but I do think you should know all the facts,” he begins.

The doctor shakes his head slowly. He finally brings himself to meet his flatmate’s eyes and is surprised to see something akin to remorse there.

John makes up his mind. He doesn’t want to hear more about the history of the war, however. He’s heard most of it before, from his father. “Go back. Tell me about your parents—and you.”

The detective exhales, glad at least that John has started speaking. His next words fall out quickly. “My parents met in the year 1974. My mother was Mary Holmes, English. She worked as an engineer at a corporation called Undershaw Cryogenics. You wouldn’t have heard of it. It was one of the many businesses closed down after the Wars due to suspected connection to the Augments.

“She met my father at a cryogenics research convention. I don’t know the details of what happened after that but I do know that a couple of months later Mary found that she was pregnant. She’d only known Khan for a week or so before he’d been called off urgently on business. She contacted him only when she gave birth to Mycroft, and he started spending more time with her, taking a small part in Mycroft’s upbringing. Apparently that small part wasn’t enough, however, and our parents decided that if Khan would be busy too often, he wouldn’t be a part of my childhood at all, to avoid any… problems. This was decided six years after Mycroft’s birth, when they discovered that my mother was with child again.

“Mycroft had developed mostly as a normal human child would. His intelligence is, as you know, off the charts, but his physical and psychological state was average for a boy his age. It has remained so for his entire life thus far. But Mycroft inherited mostly from our mother. I… did not. When Mycroft was seven, Mary gave birth a second time. My father played little part in my life. However, despite this, or perhaps due to it…” here he pauses cautiously, “I was a difficult child.

“I didn’t like other people. Well, neither did Mycroft, but he was always a bit of a manipulator. He was good at keeping other people from knowing how he felt about them. I, on the other hand, never cared what people thought, as you know. Unfortunately, I didn’t like anyone, and no one liked me. I made enemies early on in life. Everyone has schoolboy rivalries, of course, but most boys’ enemies don’t end up in hospital with a fractured skull and two broken arms after a schoolyard fight.” He stops, scrutinizing John again.

Who is blinking abnormally fast. He’s not sure he wants to hear the details of Sherlock’s amoral childhood, and yet he’s morbidly fascinated. He’s heard—and seen—worse. And he’d asked for it, hadn’t he?

He really does want to know the truth, and all of it, but he doesn’t want to hear absolute confirmation that his friend really isn’t human.

But he listens, anyway. He nods for Sherlock to continue.

“I honestly didn’t know what I was capable of, at that point. I was ten years old; I knew that I was cleverer than all the other children, and I didn’t know who my father was. But all children, those days, grew up knowing who the Augments were. Most people alive today actually knew a lot about them before Tabula Rasa—I’ll get to that later,” he says when John opens his mouth to ask a question.

“So I knew who, or rather, _what_ Khan was when he visited our flat a couple of weeks after. I didn’t know his name, and I didn’t know who specifically he was. The visit was coincidence, but the schoolyard incident was still fresh in my mind.

“He just showed up on our doorstep one day. I still don’t know why he came. I’d never seen an Augment before, but I knew what he was, and it was the first time in my life I’d ever frozen in fear. When I closed the door, I told my mother, and then Mycroft and I were sent on a walk around the city. When we returned half an hour later, the stranger was leaving and our mother was still inside, devastated by something that we never really found out. I later discovered whom he was through a bit of research on my own.

“And those were the two most memorable points of my childhood, spaced within weeks of each other,” Sherlock concludes.

John takes some time to process everything, holding Sherlock’s gaze all the time. He finally nods, slowly. Sherlock flinches and looks away.

John makes his way over to Sherlock’s chair. His flatmate starts again when John touches his shoulder.

“Sherlock.”

The other man looks up. “John,” he says, in response.

The doctor takes a deep breath. “Sherlock,” he repeats. Suddenly he realizes that he doesn’t know what he’s going to say. “Er. Look. I was re-taught about the Eugenics Wars by my father, years after I forgot. I guess you know that already. He fought against the Augments. Obviously. He and my mother were both killed because of them. So I suppose I have some kind of justification in hating them.”

Sherlock pulls away at this point and stares at the window, but the drapes are closed.

John says his name again to get his attention. “I don’t hold you accountable for the Eugenics Wars, or the actions of your father and his comrades, or for being who you are. I don’t hate _you_ , Sherlock. I know that you’re capable of love and I think your father was, too, and I think that you are the most brilliant and best and most human human being that I have ever met. And nothing you tell me will ever convince me otherwise.”

Sherlock is looking at him again, with wide eyes.

“I’m bloody angry with you, still,” John says, before Sherlock can open his mouth. “I can’t live with secrets like that hanging over you and I don’t want anything so terrifyingly huge like this popping up again, so you are going to tell me everything.”

The world’s only consulting detective is perfectly happy to oblige.

John pre-empts him again. “Not right now. Not everything right now. But you can start with Moriarty, and why he’s involved in all this, because I know he is. And then you can explain about this tabula rasa thing. Tomorrow.”

Sherlock agrees quickly.

John realizes then that his hand is still on Sherlock’s shoulder. He’s putting too much weight on it, so he removes it. It suddenly registers that Sherlock is covered in his own blood, from his fall from Bart’s, but he doesn’t seem to be too bothered by it. John _is_ a doctor, however, and so he pushes him to the bathroom to stick his head in the shower, at the very least.

But first, on an instinct, he brings him to standing and pulls him into a hug.

Sherlock is so surprised that he wavers and nearly falls back into the chair, and something in the back of John’s mind realizes that the only time he’s seen Sherlock embrace anyone was on the second day that they’d known each other, when they were entering 221B for the first time. He’d hugged Mrs Hudson, and since then, years ago, John can’t recall a specific incident when his best friend had hugged anyone else.

Sherlock is an awkward hugger, but perhaps he hasn’t got much practice. He’s tense at first, but finally relaxes and melts into John, if that is possible of the taller man.

They get to the bathroom after a bit of persuasion on John’s part. Sherlock protests quietly, saying that the only thing that had broken completely was his shoulder blade, and that it’s setting already. John can already see that, under the blood, the skin wounds are mostly closed. They don’t even scar; the skin just smooths out over everything. But he wants to look at Sherlock’s head, because his face and hair are laced with red.

After a few minutes of hot rinsing, John can see the very thin ridge on Sherlock’s skull where the bone had fractured. He probes it tentatively and finds that it is actually healing itself, slowly, as he watches.

It’s a medical marvel, but he’d expect this of someone with Khan Noonien Singh’s blood.

He tells Sherlock to wash completely, then walks out of the bathroom with some surprising reservation.

=-o

Ten minutes later—Sherlock showers quickly—John does a full examination.

The entire experience is clinical. John is the doctor, Sherlock is the patient. Or this should be the case, but Sherlock’s sitting on his bed in just his underwear and John finds himself distractedly noticing that in all the time they’ve spent together, he’s never seen Sherlock this undressed before.

It isn’t even be that unusual for two flatmates to have seen each other at least slightly unclothed for the simple reason that they live together. John’s been shirtless in 221B, after all. But he guesses that Sherlock would be reluctant to show too much skin due to the fact that every single pale inch of it is pristinely smooth. John can’t find a single blemish. _Augment skin_ , he thinks, briefly.

By now, the fracture in Sherlock’s skull is barely noticeable. Half of his left shoulder is still a bit out of place but the rest of Sherlock is as Sherlock usually is.

“Satisfied?” Sherlock asks impatiently, once John has examined him.

John finds, surprisingly, that he is more than satisfied. He’s pleased, but with what, he isn’t sure.

o-=

The afternoon—it’s afternoon by now—passes quickly.

They spend it having an astonishingly civilised conversation regarding what to tell their friends.

John finds it interesting that Sherlock is actually using the word “friend” freely, but he can’t fathom what has caused this sudden change.

They also need to figure out what to tell the public. People had seen him fall from Bart’s. Presumably, people had also seen him get back up after the fall, which should have been fatal from that height.

“Look, it’s not up to me, but I think you should tell Molly and Lestrade and Mrs Hudson, at least.” John lays out his opinion.

“It’s not something you just _tell_ people, John.” Sherlock is back to his previously agitated state.

John, on the other hand, is the calm one for once. “I’m not proposing we let _Anderson_ know, Sherlock. Or the general public, for that matter. But those three, they need to know. Anyway, there isn’t anything that you can’t _tell_ someone. You told it to me, didn't you?”

“You watched me fall off of a building and survive,” Sherlock says, then winces again, as if this reminder of his heritage will suddenly cause John to walk out.

“You made me watch,” John points out.

Sherlock blinks. “I did. I did, didn’t I?” He almost sounds surprised. “Why would I do that?”

“You tell me,” John says quietly.

Sherlock doesn’t answer.

They get back to the question at hand.

“So what about the general public? That crowd that saw you?”

Sherlock shrugs. “I’ll say it was some sort of trick. Not many of them were in actual view of the pavement at the time that I hit. That ambulance station blocked a lot of the area.”

“And the few people who could see the whole thing?”

“We’ll say the same thing. It was a trick. People will believe anything,” Sherlock says dismissively. “They’ll eventually convince themselves that they didn’t see what really happened, that it happened too fast for them to really see what was going on. That’s the way normal peoples’ minds work.”

And that’s when John understands that he’s not “normal people”. Not to Sherlock. He says this out loud.

Sherlock is surprised again. Today has been a record day for surprises, even for Sherlock and John.

He is solemn when he says, “John. There are ten million Johns in the world, and ten million doctors, and fifty million soldiers, but Doctor John Hamish Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, is the least pedestrian man I have ever met.”

And at this point public announcements and medical marvels are banished from the mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Mar 2016: I've had this fic as an incomplete for a while now (since April of 2014) and I haven't updated, nor have I written any further material. It occurs to me that this chapter is a fairly good place to end, and unless I receive any requests for a continuation, I'm marking it as complete now.


End file.
